How could we survive without them? This holiday season, make a point of spending some stress-free time — even a stolen afternoon — with a good friend

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The worth of female friendship was not something immediately apparent to me. When I was a little girl, around 5 years old, and living with my military family in Germany, friends were not easy to find, and I spent a lot of time playing alone. My mother must have worried about that, and one day she prevailed upon another American woman to bring over her own 5-year-old daughter for a playdate. I have a very clear memory of standing in my playroom after I was introduced to this girl and wondering what in heaven's name I was meant to do with her. I had big plans for the day: I wanted to look through my View-Master, then move on to the more complex kaleidoscope. Then it would be time for lunch, and after that for exploring the out-of-doors — might a friendly dog or cat wander by and sit still while I conjured up names for it?

The little girl in front of me was interfering with all that potential, so I did what I thought was the most expedient thing to do: I told her, "Go home." And she did. And I got into a fair amount of trouble, but it was worth it, because what was I supposed to do — share the kaleidoscope?

Well, of course I was meant to share the kaleidoscope — as well as all my other toys.

I was about 8 when we moved to Minnesota, where I played waitress and secretary with a girl named Kathleen, whose mother made us a lunch of pea soup and buttered toast and served it to us in Kathleen's bedroom on a tray with a runner. (The tray — made of real silver — was so elaborate that for a few years I nourished the fantasy that Kathleen was the lost Russian princess, Grand Duchess Anastasia, living in obscurity in a modest townhouse in St. Paul. Never mind that the timetable didn't work out; it was a fantasy, after all.)

When I was 11, we moved to Texas, where my friend Val and I played with Barbie dolls. Under her astute direction, we specialized in enacting highly dramatic death scenes featuring a gasping Barbie making last-minute confessions of love to the daughter she had not appreciated. It was with Val that I practiced kissing, albeit with a pillow between our faces, and it is her dramatic nature I credit for making me the world-class kisser I am today. (Not to brag.)

Besides Val, my other guru for managing preadolescence was two years my senior, and I thought she knew everything. So did she. She told me I had to shave my legs because the boys called me "Gorilla Legs" behind my back. She instructed me to stuff my bra with tissues or socks ("Your choice," she added generously), and she showed me the way to point my toes and do mermaid dives at the swimming pool rather than scream out "Polo!" to someone's "Marco." She encouraged me to lie outside and tan with her. She showed me how to have a party and play spin the bottle, and she saw nothing wrong with inviting way more boys than girls.

In high school, I formed a friendship with an artistic and highly intelligent girl who turned me on to Bob Dylan; I formed another with a quite beautiful girl who was great at modeling and knew the best Steak 'n Shakes to cruise.

In college, I met Phyllis, who is now one of my best friends. I was living in an apartment when she came over to visit my roommate, and I fell in girl-love. I lived near the University of Minnesota campus, and at the time there was a man who terrorized women by leaping out from behind bushes and hugging them. We unimaginatively called him "The Hugger." I know — it sounds so tame. But we were all terrified. I asked Phyllis if she was afraid walking alone at night. "No," she said, and showed me what she planned to do if assaulted. "I'll just say, 'Could you hold on a second, Mr. Hugger?' " Then she dug into her purse and brandished a large serving fork with which she intended to defend herself. So she was brave. And she was pretty, funny, and exquisitely responsive to whatever I said. She still is. She loves music, cooking, and nature like I do; we align politically. We know by heart the best lines from Blazing Saddles and All About Eve and Leonard Bernstein's "Kaddish." Not often have we lived in the same place, but our friendship is the truest thing I know. She is my go-to person for any kind of news. When I got cancer, I called her first. When I sold my first novel, ditto. When my dog died, when my daughters were born, when I decided to get divorced, when I fell in love again — I called her.

I met my other best friend, Marianne, when I took my first job as a nurse. It was in a hospital in San Francisco, and we both worked on the same floor. I liked her immediately and thought her feisty and eccentric — an artist in a nurse's uniform. And I have to say her friendship was a bit hard-won. The first time I asked her over to my house, she declined in a way that implied she'd thought I'd try to sell her life insurance. But then she did come over. She plopped herself in a chair in the corner of the living room and, as we talked endlessly, proceeded to rip the nylons off her legs — it was her way of dealing with a run. She was cool, earthy, and honest, and I thought, Yep, I was right; she's a friend for me. Thirty-eight years later, I'm still right. We make quilts together, cook together, garden together; we talk about how best to deal with children and aging parents. And more and more often, we reference our aging selves: "You already told me that," we'll say to each other. Or, "Oh, I know. But I think it's only arthritis."

Not long ago, I was in a terrible funk, and two other women friends were the ones to get me out of it. One, taking a practical approach, told me I had to avail myself of the lovely things in the world that are always there for the taking. She had me list three things I wanted to take part in (yoga, voice lessons, volunteering), then said she was going to hound me until I did them. The other woman, after reading an e-mail I'd sent that went into some detail about my despair, got back to me immediately, writing, Tell me if you want me to fly out there right now, and I'll come. I'll make you tea and buttered toast with the crusts off and cut into triangles, but won't bother you. I'll be the ghost in the kitchen.

Here's what I know about that friend: She wasn't posturing. If I had offered a tremulous, "OK, come right now, then," she would have.

These days, my friends serve as sounding boards, guideposts, reality checks, audiences for jokes and for sorrows that tear at the heart. They are the people with whom I discuss haircuts and novels and mascara and recipes and the President. I rely on them to provide the kind of honesty I know I can't get anywhere else; I rely upon them to be like a friend of humor writer Julie Klam: When asked her opinion of Julie's new yellow sundress, the woman said, "I don't think there's a person alive who looks good in yellow." You can't get mad at honesty like that; you treasure it. You use it. You heave out a sigh and go with your friend to exchange the dress and enlist her aid in picking out an alternative. And then maybe you go get something really bad to eat. Friends with whom I don't have to pretend are my greatest comfort, very nearly my religion.

My friends have taught me the worth not only of sharing the kaleidoscope, but of giving it away — which is to say, I now understand the value of putting myself aside in the service of a pal. Not long ago, at a very busy time in my own life, I flew out to help a girlfriend, the strongest person I know, who needed me. Not that she admitted to that; in fact, when I told her I was coming out to help, she told me there was nothing I could do. I said, "I'm coming anyway." And she said, "Don't." And I said, "Yeah, OK, I won't," and after we hung up, I bought an airline ticket and e-mailed her the itinerary. Once it was too late, she let herself admit that she was glad I was coming. And when I got there, her acceptance of my help made me feel gilded. I don't remember a thing that was making my life so busy at that time. But I remember every detail of the sight of my friend's face when I arrived, of the way we embraced for a long time. I remember helping with her children; making dinner; sitting out at night under the stars with her and not saying a word, which was saying everything, and we both heard it.

And as much as I appreciated my one friend's offer to come care for me, I never want her or any of my girlfriends to be ghosts in the kitchen. I want them to be flesh and blood, close up and with me, as I am with them, for as long as we can be.